Review: Prime Circle Live at GrandWest

Cape Town – a land where the inner-city hipsters judge the quality of a band’s music based on its failure to sell albums, and write-off anyone who happens to have a hit on the radio, because really, what kind of mainstream fools even listen to the radio? How, then, did Prime Circle expect to sell out a venue as large as Grandwest’s Grand Arena? Well – take note, hipsters – if they’ve had so many radio hits, they must have had some fans in the first place, right? The answer is yes – they had a whole arena full.

The Grand Arena has in the past played host to international bands including The Script, Daughtry and Nickelback, with The Fray and 30 Seconds to Mars both scheduled for later this year, but this was the first time I had experienced it with the golden circle and general admission areas instead filled with chairs. I must say, it was a welcome sight. With tonight’s concert attracting a large number of the older crowd, as well as parents with children, seating everyone made for a less tiring evening, but did not stop the fans from jumping up and leaving their seats long forgotten by the second song of the night.

Opening act Jesse Clegg was treat for many of the audience members. Playing slowed down acoustic versions of five of his song, ‘Heartbreak Street’ in particular contained enough familiar lyrics to transport one back in time to 2008, when it was a firm radio favourite.

It’s a mind-blowingly quick changeover, thanks to the help of a giant curtain which had been hiding all of Prime Circle’s gear, and within seconds they burst onto stage. Now, I’d need both hands and possibly a foot to count the amount of times I’ve seen Prime Circle before – but never quite like this.

Instantly, the stage is lit up in all colours of the rainbow, with dancing lights and background screens emphasizing each song. It’s impossible to reconcile this band on stage tonight with the band that so often plays on outside stages at the likes of the Kirstenbosch Summer Concerts. Tonight, they’re just as international as any of those bands that have been here before.

Brand new single ‘Gone’ goes down a storm as the second song of the evening, but of course we are treated to some of the old classics as well, including ‘Hello’ and ‘As Long As I Am Here’ from their first album, way back in 2002. And yes, everyone does still remember the words to both songs.

With the front rows having left their seats long ago, Prime Circle proceeded to cover their fans in sparkly gold ribbons, which shot from the confetti cannons, high into the air and elicited many ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’.

‘Out of This Place’ and ‘Breathing’ are two of my personal favourites, also performed impeccably, however the biggest singalong of the night was – without a doubt – ‘She Always Gets What She Wants’. Frontman Ross Learmonth (still, somehow, with that hint of a Scottish accent, although he left the country when he was tow months old) dedicated the song to all the ladies in honour of Women’s Day, and grinned broadly as the voices of the crowd overpowered his own.

Closing with ‘Consider Me’, the show was absolutely fantastic. Ending in a shower of confetti, Prime Circle set the bar high for live performances, and other local bands should take note. An absolutely professional production, it is no wonder that the band have had successful European tours with bands including 3 Doors Down.

As a side note, there are several ways in which one can describe Grandwest Casino on a Saturday night: the tourist brochures will certainly call it ‘a hive of activity’, but I prefer ‘pure hell on earth’. Do arrive at 7pm for an 8pm show, expecting to ‘just grab dinner when you get there’. What you’ll be doing is entering a fierce battle with several teens on dates, and perhaps a crying 3-year-old before you get near the front of the line for any kind of food. In fact, I’d advise to sneak in the side entrances near the arena, and skip the rest altogether.

Original review also found on www.whatsonincapetown.com.

Top 5 Songs: The Shins

I was halfway through a list of my favourite song lyrics in the history of songs, when I was suddenly struck by the fact that I had to keep restraining myself from adding another song by The Shins. And another. And another. So I decided to save that one in my drafts and instead begin a list of my Top 5 by The Shins.

Way back in early March 2012, I booked tickets for Reading Festival, simply because the thought of Paramore was enough to elicit and actually squeal, and when The Gaslight Anthem were added about a minute later, I literally screamed. Add Foster The People, The Vaccines, Florence, and some weirdos called the Foo Fighters, and I was sold. Cue buying tickets on my poor mother's credit card, and hoping she'd forgive me the next morning when I had to make the "I-just-spent-R5000-on-your-credit-card" phone call. The next few months flew by in a whir of Pumped Up Kicks, you-and-what-army, instrumental intros for Flo's numbers, a cursory listen to The Black Keys... and an interesting new find called The Shins. Something about their melodies haunted me, even though I battled to catch a lot of the lyrics. By the time I got better at figuring out James Mercer's vocals, I just had enough time to place myself firmly in awe of his lyrical genius, before I embarked upon a crusade to learn every word of their setlist before August. It was the beginning of April, and I was hooked.

Fast-forward to this band being the one I was most looking forward to, besides the Gaslight Anthem, but then add 5000 bored-looking audience members, and it was enough to put a massive downer on my excitement. The band's performance was great, but the audience acted like they were at a funeral, and I was the only one singing along to 'Bait & Switch' at the top of my voice. Now, two years later, they are still one of my favourite bands, and I think back on that day with nothing but regret. I wish that I could have blocked the audience out and enjoyed the performance more, but it hurt me personally that such an amazing band weren't getting the treatment they deserved.

Anyway. To make me feel better, let's do a Top 5, so that if you ever happen to see The Shins, you'll be able to sing enough for all those losers who just don't.

'Australia' - At first listen it's upbeat, happy-sounding and catchy. Even if you do work out the words James is singing, chances are you never string them together well enough to realise that it's about being stuck in a dead-end job. It's a classic formula: being with poppy tune, add miserable theme, and it's that perfect shocker for when your listeners finally figure out what you're on about. Don't believe me? Take a look at the lyrics - it's all selfish fools (bosses) and buying of your life's time (that pitiful salary you receive at the end of the month). 

'Port of Morrow' - If this was the first/only song by The Shins that you ever heard, you've be forgiven for thinking that they're super-emo. It's a lament on the sad truths of life, and is horrifyingly descriptive and frank. I love it, and in my head there is a perfect sepia-toned music video to go along with it. 

'Phantom Limb' - Apparently about a lesbian couple in high school, but there's no doubt that everyone can relate to the line "follow the lines and wonder why there's no connection" every now and then. It's a song about being out of place, and all of us rejects know what that feels like.

'New Slang' - Pure and absolute poetry! This isn't a song, it's just a purely genius way of stringing words together into absolute perfection, and elicit emotions I didn't even know I had. I mean, what does "If you took to me like a gull takes to the wind, well I'da jumped from my trees and I'da danced like the king of the eyesores..." even me?! I'll tell you what it means - it means that this band is flawless.

'Simple Song' - Oh, the way I squealed when this was played in How I Met Your Mother! Perhaps they'd finally get some attention in the mainstream media. One of my favourite songs ever, it contains an endless amount of lines appropriate enough to caption an Instagram picture with, or quote on Twitter when you're feeling alone. Plus, the video is full of people tearing each other's hair out and avoiding a wrecking ball, what more could you ask for?

Panic! At The Disco; Top 5 Songs

So after getting over my initial displeasure that Panic! At The Disco were the much-awaited final headliners for I Heart Joburg, I remembered that they sing 'Nine in the Afternoon' which featured in one episode of the second season of Heroes, and then I got excited. So why was I initially so displeased, you ask? Well, because they're a little alternative, electro-rock band from Vegas, they have a little song about Vegas lights, they shoot little videos in the desert and the little fool that leads the band is called Brendan of all things. Basically, they're as close to being The Killers as you can be without being The freaking Killers!!!!! I was so close to seeing my favourite band in my country again and then they whip out the closest thing to them in the world!! It's adding insult to injury, I tell you! Like seeing 'cola' on the menu and then having it be Pepsi instead of Coke. Like, just give me Creme Soda instead FFS! Anyway, this displeasure lead to a temper tantrum at the office, with me basically running around shouting 'Panic! At The Disco' at the top of my lungs, whilst trying not to burst into horrified sobs. When asked what was wrong, I simply replied 'Panic! At The Disco'. I think I was having a breakdown.

Fast-forward a month or two, and I've calmed down a bit (unless someone mentions the video for 'Vegas Lights', then I lose my shit) and I'm forcing myself to listen to the band that I really did like until they offended me by not being The Killers. So let's break down a top 5 - nah, let's be realistic and do a top 3 -  and I'll try to keep my cool:

3) 'I Write Sins, Not Tragedies' - Probably Panic!'s best-known song, it was many people's first taste of Brendan's vocal range, quirky lyrics, and song titles that don't make sense (a-la Fall Out Boy). 

2) 'The Ballad of Mona Lisa' - I swear, I once said that I wish The Killers had written this song. In fact, every time I hear it, I imagine Brandon Flowers singing it into one of those old-fashioned 50s stand-up microphones. Anyway, Brendan and his crew do it pretty well too (I'd expect so, seeing they wrote it). I have a vivid memory of singing it in the car on the way to PE one day back in 2011, when going to PE was the most exciting thing in the world.

1) 'Nine in the Afternoon' - I don't care who tells me what 'I Write Sins...' should be number 1; it should not be! I mean, what even is nine in the afternoon? I don't know, neither does little Brendan Urie I bet, but either way, it's a catchy tune and I love a few nonsense lyrics every now and then. 

Top Five: Fall Out Boy

As I Heart Joburg Festival draws ever closer (flights booked, friends bugged for accommodation, and slight panic that omg-the-whole-thing-is-going-to-fall-through initiated), I've set my playlist to nothing but a constant rotation of Fall Out Boy and Panic! At The Disco - because in all honesty they're the only acts worth seeing. Anyway, I can sing along to all of Jason Derulo's songs without even trying - all I need to do is belt out "JAAAAAYSOOOOON DERULOOOOO" at random intervals. (I'm just being facetious here, I'm really quite fond of Jessie J too, it's not about the money, money, money and all that, and my friend assures me that Jessie is the only reason she agreed to fork out all those cash monies to join the concert-pros in golden circle. Plus, B.O.B did that song with Hayley Williams. And the one with Rivers Cuomo. Okay, maybe the line-up is good all-round.)

As the playlist on my iPod progresses through the various stages of FOB, I'm left squealing "Ahhh I forgot all about this song" every time "I'm Like A Lawyer..." starts, and positively squeaking over "Sugar, We're Going Down". So what are the top must-listen sing-along faves for the 6th of September? Let's break it down:

5) 'Just One Yesterday' - I know the premise is a little depressing, but I love the title line in this song. Anyone pick up the reference to 'Me & Bobby McGee'? No? Oh well, the band probably didn't either. This song is a little slower and more serious than the FOB we've grown to know and love, but nonetheless it's one of my top.

4) 'This Ain't A Scene, It's An Arms Race" - after many moons spent trying to figure out exactly what tisseenaseenitsaguuhuhsru actually meant ("this ain't a scene, it's a g*d-damned arms race) and many more trying to figure out why this guy is weaving such intricate lies (still haven't got that one down) it became another FOB classic. But if you say this one's your all-time-favourite, I'm afraid the bandwagon's full - please catch another.

3) "My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark" - it was the moment every Fall Out Boy fan had been waiting for: the reunion. Despite my mother's hilarious suggestion that perhaps the guys had fallen out, die-hard fans never quite gave up hope. And then, on the day of Reading Festival 2013 line-up announcements (I CALLED IT), FOB decided to come back, and they dropped a new single, which just happened to be this one. For that reason alone, it should be on the top 5.

2) "Thnks Fr Th Mmrs" - I finished school in 2007, the heyday of this song. For our 'yearbooks' we each had to provide a song quote/title/something to accompany our picture: something that summed up our personalities, or our feelings on leaving school. I went with 'Thanks For The Memories', but unfortunately so did half my year, so I didn't get to use it. Either way, I perfected this song on SingStar, and felt like a boss belting our Patrick's vocals. All together now, "one night and one more time!" and soon we'll be thanking Joburg for the memories. 

1) 'Sugar, We're Going Down' - ahhh, the sweet sounds of 2006! I think my 'Now' CD almost wore out from over play of whatever track number this was. When the times comes at I Heart, I will definitely be falling over a barrier, laying flat at Pete/Patrick's feet and crying. Remember, I'm flying up from Cape Town for this song, and everything else is a bonus. 

Scotland Part 1

We make it to the airport with several hours to spare, and whilst waiting to check in, we observe the behaviour of others around us. Turns out that no matter how much of a fuss you kick up, there's no option of taking extra luggage with you. "Go over there and empty your bag, bring it back to me when it weighs less than 6kg." I hold my breath and gingerly place my suitcase and hand luggage on the scale. Mine is 1 kg under weight, and mom's is 900g over, so together we're alright. The next obstacle is finding food. I would soon live to regret my mumbled "I'll eat through security" when I realised that there was NO FOOD THROUGH SECURITY. Not even a crappy Costa rip-off to sell my exhausted soul a cup of milk-less tea and a dry doughnut. After making besties with an older lady who asked us to watch her handbag whilst she visited the loo (cue minor internal panic that she had definitely just left us with a bomb), she was most interested to hear that we were from South Africa. "Is it safe there, though? The whole Oscar Pistorius thing..." No, lady, it's not safe in SA... every former sports star is a raving lunatic with a gun. 

Eventually we fall in line to board, way at the back of the line, underneath a large poster bearing the image of a designer handbag. I don't know more than 5 words of Italian, but the message is pretty clear: if you're found with counterfeit products, you're in big poo. Hmm. Good thing I managed to tear myself away from that beautiful handbag I'd seen on the streets of Rome. 

Once in the air, the food trolley can't come around quickly enough, but once it does I have to be difficult once again. Rather than grab a coke and packet of crisps to help my rapidly-dropping sugar levels, I insist on tea and a cheeseburger. What? I was starving and it was the most substantial thing on the menu. Little do I know that we'll be 15 minutes from touchdown when my pathetic excuse for a cheeseburger will finally arrive, along with the ketchup I'd paid 50c for. Sigh. I'm done with you, EasyJet.

Upon landing, it's all I can do to not throw myself upon the Great British ground and kiss it. While crying. And throwing back litres and M&S lemonade. Seriously, I've never been so happy to touch down in an English-speaking, Starbucks-offering country in my entire life. I never have to see another gosh-damned pizza again in my life!

We make it onto a bus (and pass a Toby Carvery - cue flood of emotions - remember the server caller Chris? - but unfortunately we don't get time to pay a visit to this particular restaurant) but by now my mind is starting to lose itself in an "OMG The Killers" deadlock, because I'm seeing my favourite band in exactly 4 days. 

After checking in to our hotel - a neat, pretty MotelOne complete with a kettle - we hit the road to the nearest M&S. I have a vague recollection of lemon-flavoured biscuits, buying a dress from H&M or Primark or somewhere, a mad hunt through Primark for a suitable pair of wellies for T, dinner composed of a stuffed baked potato and an interesting cold drink, a quick glance at a few more shops, then heading back to the hotel just in time to hear the news saying Mandela was on his death bed and Cory Monteith was actually dead. I also felt a pang of a minor elation at the fact that there was a Starbucks just up the road. And then... I slept. 

But dawn breaks early when you're so far north, and we waste no time in hitting Starbucks for a snack before proceeding to explore the town. Edinburgh Castle comes first, where we bump into a large collection of Canadian school children, before pottering off down the Royal Mile in search of tartan scarves which cost less than 30 Pounds (read: rip-offs that weren't 100% cashmere - ain't nobody got time for that). 

Scotland is everything. It's the walk up a steep and winding path to the Castle, at the top of which you find the best view of the city you could imagine; it's the record shop that stocks enough Springsteen vinyls to keep an E-Streeter happy for the rest of his or her glory days; it's the fact that there's a freaking volcano in town, and another castle at the other end of the Royal Mile. It's everything. Once again with food on our minds, we head towards the centre of town and locate the Hard Rock Cafe, where the waiter frowns and informs me that I don't look like I'm dressed for T in the Park. Please. It's taking every ounce of self-control I possess, for me to still be wearing normal shoes rather than prancing around in my brand new pink wellies. 

The Edinburgh Dungeons are not the be missed, and we brace ourselves for the scariest possible tour. We pass a giant fake guillotine (maybe, I can't remember what it was, but I know for a fact that it could chop heads off...) and venture down a dark passage way, decorated on each side with a fake rat or two. From somewhere inside comes maniacal laughter, and a guy in a long cloak takes our money, before handing us our change and saying "Thank ye' " in a thick Scottish accent. I giggle and fight the urge to beg him to say "See ye in another life, Brotha." Trying his best to be menacing, he leads us into a room and orders us to stay there, along with a woeful-looking dad ('What am I getting myself in for?'  is surely his predominant thought) and his two teenage daughters. Eventually we're ushered into a makeshift courtroom and interrogated for various crimes: someone's broken the laws of fashion; someone else was caught dancing naked at midnight. And the dad? "Where're you from?" asks the 'judge'. "Belfast." 'Sorry." "BELFAST." "Oh no, I heard you, I'm just sorry that you're from Belfast." and the poor dude is certainly sorry at this very moment that he ever left Belfast. And so we move on through the tour - the ghost girl in the window is a nice touch, as is the way the seats move below us when we're inside the rooms of some dodgy lady doctor. The cannibalistic cave-people are quite fun too, but then we're made to board a 'boat' and row off down a 'river' to escape them. 'Scuse me? You want to launch me through the pitch dark in a mechanical boat, without any idea of what's ahead of me? Not about that life. I repeat: I am not about that life. Luckily I manage to keep calm enough to not plant myself upon anyone's lap (unlike Belfastian teens in the seats in front of me). Next we're loaded onto a mini-rollercoaster and zipped up into the air and then dropped. Child's play after that boat. I'll stay on this tour as long as someone can promise me that the rest of it will be fully illuminated. It is, although we do have to fight our way through a maze of mirrors to find the exit, where we leave through the gift shop after purchasing photographs of ourselves beheading each other. 

Darkness also falls late here, meaning that we have been able to squeeze in a full tour of the city before passing out back in the hotel room with an adequate supply of M&S and tea, to ready our bodies for what is to come the next day...

Going Neopolitan

After a train ride bypassing Rome and heading further South to the Neopolitan coast, I'm excited to explore the famed Bay of Naples. Oh boy, am I in for a surprise. Yes, I'm on a spur-of-the-moment Eurotrip; no, I did not thoroughly research every stop before boarding my train (rookie error); yes, I've landed up in perhaps the dodgiest city in the whole of the Northern Hemisphere. I exaggerate, but only slightly: Naples is Hell on Earth. 

If the repeated voice over of "Please be aware of pick-pockets" in the train station isn't enough to send you right back on the next Trenitalia back to Roma Termini, perhaps the homeless people outside will do the trick. Or the fact that you can't cross the street without almost getting hit by a car because there are no stop streets and no robots! Phew. Good thing our hotel is about 100 paces from Napoli Centrale Stazzione. We hit the local 'pizza kebab' (read: chicken takeaway shop owned by immigrants from Pakistan) because if I see another gosh-damned pizza in my life I will hurl the thing moonwards quicker than you can say "that's amore". Adequately fed - and holding onto our handbags for dear life - we manage to dodge the throws of people trying to sell us a myriad of stolen items (iPads being the most plentiful) and make it onto a circumvesuviana train to Pompeii Scavi.

Yes, "scavi" is Italian for "ruins", which means I am on my way to the ruins of the actual city of Pompeii, destroyed by the volcanic eruption of Mount Vesuvius wayyyyy back in the first century AD. Goodness, gracious me. "If you close your eyes", that episode of Doctor Who with Peter Capaldi, and the ACTUAL CITY OF POMPEII. It's almost too much for my little brain to handle. The train ride there is pretty gross and goes past a million slums and poor fishing villages, plus when we reach the modern town of Pompei, everything is closed (it's afternoon), but we make it to the ruins around 2pm, and spend the rest of the afternoon wandering around, lost in the history, architecture, and the fact that these ancient human beings had pizza ovens. Some things never change. But Pompeii is truly something spectacular, there are no words to describe experiencing the remains of a city so ancient that parts of it were built before Jesus (whoever he might have been) even walked the Earth. Breathtaking, isn't it? 

But it's true what the guidebooks say, the maps aren't kept updated, and after walking towards an exit for a good 20 minutes in the 36 degree baking sun, we find it blocked and have to try to figure out another way to leave. It's not pleasant, but we persevere, and eventually make our way out. We stop on the way back to the train station for one of those lovely lemon-slush-drink things, and then make sure we catch a train which lands us back in Napoli long before the sun goes down. If the place is dodgy during the day, I'd hate to imagine it by night. But in stark contrast to the rest of the town, our hotel is the nicest I've seen the entire trip... plus there's a kettle. A kettle, I tell you! Luckily we still have some of that Irish tea with us. 

The next day dawns slightly overcast, but warm, and we know that it's the perfect day to tackle Mount Vesuvius. Now, I'm probably the least athletic person you will ever stumble upon, so it's a miracle that I even agreed to go near the Mountain, but hey, when in Naples, do as the tourists do, right? And so we head for the Circumvesuviana line again, this time stopping well before Pompeii, to catch the little tour bus up the side of the mountain. Tourists pay a fee, get dropped off halfway up the mountain, then have 90 minutes to reach the top, explore, and get back down before the bus leaves again. 

And so we're hustled into the front of the minivan with a large Italian driver, wearing a bright green t-shirt and a slightly menacing grin. It doesn't take long for me to absorb my surroundings, and take in the fact that the dashboard is covered in old photographs of the driver's presumably-dead relatives. Hmm. Before we know it, the bus goes racing off, driver speaking into his cellphone in rapid Italian, one hand pressing the device against his ear, and the other precariously balancing the steering wheel between its thumb and forefinger. I'm sure I'm going to die. Driving with an Italian is not the faint of heart, and the speed at which the bus hurtles around the corners on the twisty mountain road are enough to give me nightmares for the rest of my life. Eventually, we slow down behind a massive touring bus, and I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that at least now our driver has to stick to some kind of speed limit. I've never been more wrong in my life. All at once, there's an explosion of hooting (this is how drivers communicate that other cars should get out of the damned way) and we're flying past the tour bus, on the wrong side of the road, and narrowly avoiding being taken out by various cars zooming down the mountain. I decide that perhaps I should close my eyes for the rest of the ride. 

Finally, we're deposited in the parking lot, and dumped unceremoniously from the van. 90 minutes and we'd better be back, unless we really want to walk all the way back to the train station (though after this ride, perhaps that would be safer). And so we set to work, heading up the mountain. Young men in the parking lot hand out long wooden hiking sticks, and whether or not you think you'll need one to help you, the answer is yes, you do. The path is steep and full of loose stones, which make it difficult to get one's footing. But once we've gotten into a rhythm, we manage to make it up the mountain with no major problems. They key is to pace yourself, and not try to get up too fast. We take in the view, and that fact that we're in the midst of an actual volcano, and then take our time exploring the rim of the crater and buying souvenir postcards. I completely disregard the "No removing anything from this natural site" rule, and pocket a tiny piece of rock. What? I'm a former geology student, I'd be a complete disappointment if I didn't try! By the time we're finished wandering around, however, we realise that the bus is due to leave in 14 minutes, and we're still at the top of the volcano. Oh. Cue mad rush down, and the realisation that it is in fact impossible to do anything other than run down Vesuvius, due to the steep gradient. We try our hardest not to lose our footing and become casualties of the nearest hospital (*shudders*). 

The bus ride back down the mountain is even more terrifying, this time the smell of something burning is followed in quick succession by the driver furiously making the sign of the cross (Oh good lord, I am going to die, this is how it ends!), before launching his vehicle into second gear, where it was to stay for the duration of the ride. Yes, the fool had burned his clutch out. 

Invigorated - if slightly worse for the wear - we stumble back to the train feeling very impressed with ourselves. And although we immediately lock the doors and windows upon arrival back in our Naples hotel room, this dodgy city has been good to us. Tomorrow, Rome awaits. 

Dave Grohl in My Face

Don't let your fangirling get the best of you, but I have some exciting news to share.
Are you ready?
Sitting down?
No hot liquids in your hands?
Good.
Here goes:

Dave Grohl's face will officially be making its first appearance in South Africa this December! Can I get a collective "Ahhhh yeahhhhhh!"?
Yes, it's true, Big Concerts have brought out the big guns and gotten Foo Fighters to tour South Africa.
Judging by the reaction on Twitter (as well as my own screams as I drove down Orange Street on my way to work this morning...) people are very excited to finally see the Foos on home soil. It's been years in coming, and finally we'll get to see that famed 3 hour long show, during which DG will astound as with his general awesomeness, and we might all fall into a fingerling coma so deep that work the next day may just not be possible. Book your leave now.

Dave and co hit Cape Town on the 10th of December and Jozi on the 13th. Lucky up-country crowd get a weekend show, whilst us Capetonians have to settle for a Wednesday night at our very own stadium, but nothing, and I mean nothing, can dampen my current excitement.

Yes, I'll be going Golden Circle (and at R960 per ticket, I won't be eating much more than Two-Minute Noodles for the duration of next month - hello credit card) and yes, I'll  be first in line at Computicket this Thursday morning when tickets go on sale.

Find out more at www.bigconcerts.co.za.

I'm rather upset with myself for never having blogged about my previous Foos experience, but you can read about the first half of my trip to Reading Festival 2012 (headlined by DG and his boys) here.

"On An Emotional Note..." Why Do Songs Bring Memories Back?

“Funny how a melody sounds like a memory

Like a soundtrack to a July Saturday night

Springsteen, Springsteen”

Or so says American country singer Eric Church is his song named after the greatest legend of our time. But I’m not here to tell you how amazing Bruce is – you can figure that out for yourself.

No, in fact a few days ago, a friend picked me up to go to another friend’s birthday party, and the CD in first friend’s car was none other than the soundtrack to me childhood. It brought back a flood of memories of my early years, when the sun was high in the sky, and Boyzone flooded the airwaves. Where a Saturday morning out meant a trip to the local flea market, where I could be treated to one pancake, which I was to savour as I wandered around behind assorted family members. Where you packed your lunch every morning before heading out the door to work, and when Cup-A-Soup was the only guard against those dreaded days when the temperature fell below 20 degrees. When a trip to Durban was a pipe-dream, for it was just so far away. 16 years is a long time when one is only 23, but when that CD plays, it feels like it was just a heartbeat ago. Not even as though I am remembering a time past, but as though I am experiencing everything right in the moment, right now.

A 1999 study by Schulkind, Hennis and Rubin found a strong positive correlation between emotion and the strength of the memory. Now, as I’m not at a university, I am battling to find a full-text version of their article, but it does support some of my own experiences. I find that either the more fondly, or conversely, the less fondly I look back upon my experiences, the stronger the connection is to the song associated with the memory. Lost yet? Let’s examine things further.

I look back upon certain parts of my childhood with a love so fierce that when thinking back, the nostalgia can be so strong that it’s almost painful. Those are the days associated with the Boyzone CD in question here. And why should I have developed such a strong connection? Well, because I killed the damned album, that’s why! In those days, it was on a tape, and because music was less freely available (read: before the internet) back then, when once acquired a tape, one played the thing to death before moving on to another. Same thing happened with a certain Westlife album about four years later (but this time it actually was a CD).

Perhaps, you think that memories of childhood are most easily and strongly invoked by music, but you’d be wrong. Gwen Stefani’s ‘The Sweet Escape’ makes me feel physically ill because it reminds me of the time way back in my first year of university (6 years ago) when I was forced to wake up at 5am every day for a week, and sing the song to an assembled group of boys. They called it bonding – I called it hell.

Moving on, we still haven’t figured out why this happens…

So, a guy called Janata conducted a study to try to figure out exactly that! After playing a random assortment of songs from his subjects’ childhoods, and then asking certain questions, he found that – ta dah! – the most vivid recollections came with the strongest and most important memories*. Combined with a study of brain activity, he was able to confirm his hypothesis that a certain region of the brain links music and memory!

Another fascinating study by Richard Harris of Kansas State University revealed that there was little difference in the strength of the memory brought back by listening to a song vs just thinking about it.⁺

So what does this mean in terms of rating your favourite song? Would I place Rob Thomas and Santana’s 1999 hit ‘Smooth’ in my top 5 songs ever if I had to hear it today? No, probably not. How much do our memories affect the way we perceive music? I hate ‘The Sweet Escape’ simply for the memories associated with it! If I heard it for the first time today, I’d probably quite like it. It begs the question, do I actually even like 50s music, or do I just love that it reminds me of my grandparents, whom I adore?

I’ll leave you with this thought – what do you do if you begin to associate a favourite song with a situation or a person (say, a boy/girlfriend) that has potential to go pear-shaped? How can I ensure that I don’t think about the guy I was dating in 2014 every time I hear Arctic Monkeys’ ‘Do I Wanna Know’, just because it played on the radio a lot during that month that we dated? I say, simply don’t let it. Make sure you don’t stop listening to the song/album after that era ends, and your brain won’t be able to connect any certain memory with it. If you listen to anything as many times as I’ve listened to Coldplay’s ‘Paradise’ in the past three years, when you listen to it again in 10 years time, your brain will be so bombarded with thoughts and feelings and memories, that it won’t be able to pick one, and you’ll feel … nothing.

And one last thing: remember not to overplay any specific album when you’re particularly depressed. No one likes a girl who cries into her travel mug because for some reason Mark Stoermer’s debut single ‘Everybody Loves the Girl’ just came on shuffle on her iPod.

* http://www.caringnews.com/pub.59/issue.1403/article.5848/

+ http://www.impactlab.net/2009/01/22/why-do-songs-trigger-memories-specific-memories/

Florence: Artits, Artful Towers, and Alley Cats of the Roof

This time it's impossible to get lost. Just outside of the train station, we cross the road (severely damaged luggage still in tow) and pop down what we're pretty sure is the road to our hotel. And for once, we're correct. Dodging terrible parked cars, we manage to drag said luggage up a small flight of marble stairs, into a dark lobby complete with one of those old fashioned lifts that looks like something off the Titanic. I mean seriously, you have to close the metal door behind you before the thing will move. Up to the third floor we go, and upon pushing open a heavy glass door, we're spat out into a warm reception, where the concierge enquires as to whether we'd like a room with one double bed, or two single beds. Anything, just give us a place to throw down our bags! So we're ushered into the nearest room, and I collapse on the bed in mock exhaustion, side-eyeing the massive blister that's beginning to bloom on my smallest toe. We throw open the shutters to a view of Florence's residential rooftops... and cats. We were to spend the next two days observing the neighbourhood cats and their movements between the rooftops. Because cats. 

Florence, it turns out, is a haven for cheap handbags and luggage. I manage to pick up a bright pink suitcase for 30 Euros (more than I'd like to have spent, but still), and a new handbag with a zipper for a handle. Pretty cool. I also can't tear myself away from the shops and shops of pretty, sparkly things, so my earring collection has several additions by the time I depart. 

But Florence isn't all shops and money-dropping, we do a fair amount of sight-seeing too. Filled with bridges and rivers and artists, it's quite a place. I also launch a crusade to find the Hard Rock Cafe, and although when I finally do, I'm far too poor to actually afford to eat there, I do stand and gaze at a t-shirt that once belonged to Elvis, and a handwritten speech by The Boss, before tearing myself away to browse the t-shirts - which I'm also too poor to afford. 

But let's get back to the artists I mentioned. Months before, Tatum's parents had been to Florence, and taken a picture of an artist, which T had fallen in love with. She'd made it her life's mission to find this man and speak to him, so I simply had to try my hardest to locate him! I was going off one picture in which he was seated upon a few stairs, clad in an eye-patched, and smiling next to his artworks. And so I proceeded to walk the city of Florence flat ... until I happened to stumble into a very familiar-looking square... and right there in front of me was the exact piece of art in Tatum's mom's photo! But the artist himself was nowhere to be found. Cue lingering around the square until he finally reappeared and I was able to take a photo. So that's what people feel like when they complete a challenge in The Amazing Race!

We wander around town some more and get lost in the baking midday sun, then find a pub for lunch, where I dine upon spaghetti bolognaise and beg for lemonade; giggle at the school group traipsing through the 34 degree heat in their best clothes; attempt to hack into a university's wi-fi; and then make the pilgrimage up a very dark flight of stairs to locate the loo, which is in a part of the pub that looks like it might play host to the occasional karaoke night. 

Mosquitos seem as attracted to Florence in the summer as tourists are, and sleep that night is scare commodity. I keep waking up and swotting my face, but still wake up in the morning covered in marble-sized red bites all over me. Perhaps they're some kind of mutant mosquitos. 

But we're so close to Pisa that we may as well just take a train to the Leaning Towers itself! After being instructed to hurry to the train down yonder as quickly as we can, we then spend the next 45 minutes waiting for the thing to leave. The American tourist carting his entire family with him is far less patient than us, and switches carriages at least four times, luggage and all. I entertain myself watching the interactions of another American man and his son, and trying to decide if they ran away from their tour group or family. By the time we finally do arrive, the sun is high, and the tourists ar plentiful. In fact, one group marches past us complete with audio headsets. My, my, we are serious, are we not? 

As we wander casually through town, I begin to wonder when we might catch sight of this famous tower. I mean, it's surely huge, so why haven't we seen it by now? My question is answered when we round the next corner, and suddenly - there it is! Now, I wasn't expecting the Petronas Towers or the Burj Khalifa, but the Leaning Tower of Pisa is positively tiny! It's adorable! Okay, I've just googled it, and apparently it's 56m tall. Whatever. It could fit in my back pocket. 

Food is, as always, the first order of the day, and I down a margarita (the pizza) and chips (oh, glorious French fries!) and then rip myself away from the gelato, because I'm so stuffed that another morsel of food would almost certainly cause me to explode. 

And so, like the tourists we are, we angle our bodies so that we can obtain the perfect shots holding up the tower, pushing down the tower, and everything else. Note the policeman shouting at everyone doing the same thing to - in no uncertain terms - get off the gosh-damned grass! Seriously, why even have grass outside the tower?

And so a few more souvenirs are purchased, we get lost yet again, and then finally locate the train station to head back to Florence. Cue the - fruitless - attempt to find a TV station that's in English (the only words of the mother tongue I heard are Mika's cries of "underwater, underwater, underwaaaaaaater" on an advert), cue stolen tea from the breakfast room, cue one last check on the rooftop cats, and the next morning we've packed my brand new suitcase, and we're off yet again. Wherever shall the next train land us?

'Ghost Stories': I Call It Magic

In 2008, 'Violet Hill' grabbed my attention, and refused to let go. Something in those drum beats held my imagination captive, and no matter how many times I played the song on repeat, I just couldn't get enough. And so we fast-forward to Coldplay rapidly climbing the ranks of my favourite bands, through the news that they were finally set to tour SA, through the MX hype, nearly crying on a barrier as Chris Martin stood two meters from my face, through the 'Paradise' video, and that time I just happened upon their studio in Camden, North London. And after all of this fast-forwarding, we land in early 2014, when out of nowhere, a song called 'Midnight' appears, along with an accompanying video. I turn up my nose in grave distaste - no matter how many people might disagree with me, I answer all questions related to the song with "I hate it". As the arrival of the newly announced album - 'Ghost Stories' - comes ever closer, I fear the worst: I'll hate it with ever fibre of my being. The love that I had for 'Viva La Vida' will be equalled in hate for this train wreck of an album.

Or not.

The release of 'Magic' saw a return to form, in my opinion, and suddenly my excitement for the album increased a million-fold. When it was finally here, it didn't disappoint.

I'm not going to pretend to be a critic and write some crazy NME-style review complete with links to comparable work and pompous criticisms, I'm simply going to provide my own track-by-track opinion of the album. Let's begin:

1) 'Always in My Head' - not a stand out track for me, but a calm, mellow way to begin the album. They're just getting us warmed up.

2) 'Magic - love. Love. Did I mention love? From the very first beats, you can hear that this is pure Coldplay at their finest. It's clear that a lot of time and effort went into ensuring that this was the perfect song for a first single.

3) Ink - my personal favourite. On every album I have ever listened to, I have found one track that I've bonded with beyond all others. This is that track. Knowing some background to the reasons behind this album (Chris's break-up with Gwynnie), and tiny facts like that Chris has a 'G' tattooed somewhere on his body, really put the song in perspective. But lyrics aside, it's got one of the most fantastic beats I've ever heard in a Coldplay song. Top track.

4) True Love - oh, what a beautiful song. The lyrics "tell me you love me, if you don't then lie to me" just cut right through me! He's aching for GP to tell him that she loves him! Even if it's a lie! BRB, crying in a corner.

5) Midnight - kill it with fire. That's all.

6) 'Another's Arms' - another one of those songs that makes me go "ouch" for Chris Martin. There's some implication that GP is now in another's arms rather than his. Oh, Chris, what Coldplay fan wouldn't want to keep you company as you watch TV late at night? (Too much...?)

7) Oceans - I can't explain why, but this song causes me physical pain. It's not often that music is so beautiful that it affects me in this way, I mean, it's not often that anything at all invokes any kind of emotion in me at all, so you must know. It's part-lyrics, part-instruments, part the way Chris sings those lyrics, that makes me feel like a knife is going through my heart every time I reach track 7.

8) A Sky Full of Stars - hated upon first listen. By the third time, I'd warmed-up to the song slightly, although I still hate the bass drop. Don't you come telling me that that's the way music goes nowadays... there are plenty of Avicii-alikes out there to keep the bass-dropping genre alive - Coldplay does not have to join. But reaching number 1 in something like 73 countries within a day must say something - they can't all  be wrong. And once I'd looked far enough beneath the surface, I found some true Coldplay under all that rave. It's basically Charlie Brown gone Tiger Tiger*.

9) O - we end our album journey on the same calm, quiet note upon which we began. And as soon as the music fades, I want to re-start from the beginning.

The verdict? I'll always be a 'Viva La Vida' girl. That was my Coldplay era, and some things never change. 'Mylo Xyloto' was the time I saw Coldplay live, so I'll always have a soft spot for it, but as a whole, 'Ghost Stories' is perhaps a stronger album than its predecessor. It's tragic, it's haunting and it's beautiful. One thing is for certain: I need to see these songs performed live. 

*Popular Cape Town night club.